


Strike to Kill

by Oreramar



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Speculative, shiro's lost year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7281070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oreramar/pseuds/Oreramar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zarkon did not for a moment forget the weakness of this Champion’s habitual mercy in the arena, but still he fancied he could see a glimmer of the same potential Haggar had sworn was present in this being, especially considering the skill he had previously witnessed. Soldiers could be trained to kill as well as protect. Stars could expand and burn, implode and devour all they had once sustained. And while the Earthling was small compared to the Galra - a mere insect compared to Zarkon’s own power - he might very well be the ore from which a weapon could be forged.</p>
<p>First, though, Zarkon had to make sure certain impurities did not run so deep as to render that ore unusable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strike to Kill

**Author's Note:**

> This is a speculative little one-shot exploring one distant possibility for how Shiro went from arena Champion to druid experiment, encompassing the loss of his arm, the infliction of his scar, and the flash of memory seen twice in Season 1 which strongly implies that he saw Zarkon face-to-face, up close and intense, at least once during his year in captivity. I expect this to be jossed if/when we get a future season (or, with luck, seasons), but for now I'm willing to play with potential answers.

The battle ended in an instant. One moment, a flurry of motion, the next, a fragile stillness broken by the collapse of one combatant, and in between a flash of violet light. The roar of the crowd reached a new, heady height, thousands of voices melding into a three-beat chant as they cheered their latest favorite in the ring, their Champion. Broadcast drones focused on him as he left the arena, chivied cautiously out by well-armed sentries, but his opponent was still just visible in the background, dragging himself up from the dirt to be hauled out through the opposite gate, injured but alive.

Just like the Gladiator. Just like every other opponent the Champion had ever faced.

“Still weak,” Zarkon scoffed. With a flick of a hand he terminated the screen. An after-image of the Champion’s grim face hung in the air, lingering light and shadow that soon faded entirely from view. “I expected better when you brought him back to my attention, Haggar.”

“That weakness has only ever been on the surface,” said the witch at his right hand, unruffled by his displeasure. “There is strength within that we can use.”

The certainty of her response intrigued him despite his belief to the contrary.

“What strength did you see?” he invited.

“Cunning,” she replied. “Intelligence. No small level of instinct and skill. He attacks rather than cower in fear; his victories are calculated. And something in his Quintessence suggests that however small and meaningless he is now, in the right hands he could be made something _more_. In our hands, something for the glory of the Galra Empire.”

Zarkon folded his hands together and leaned back in his throne to think. Haggar waited in silence beside him; she had spoken her thoughts for now, and was content to let him consider these without interruption.

“Are your current experiments not enough for you?” he mused at length.

“I am always searching for new ways to strengthen us,” she replied, “whatever those ways may be. Contentment is never the way of the survivor.”

“No,” Zarkon smiled, “it is not. Yet neither is the acceptance or tolerance of weakness.”

“I can cut that weakness away, keeping the strength at the core,” she said again, more quickly this time. Interesting. Whatever deeper quality Haggar had seen within this Champion had intrigued her deeply; she likely already had plans in mind. She would abide by Zarkon’s word if he denied her this outright of course, but until then she would seek to persuade him by any argument she could conceive.

She had enough of his trust that he was halfway persuaded already.

But _only_ halfway.

“I will not allow our time and resources to be wasted on something I deem unbecoming of the Galra Empire’s might,” Zarkon stated, placing his hands firmly on the arms of his throne. “Contact the commander in charge of the Arena. Have the Champion sent to my private battle deck immediately, so that I may test him myself. If I can satisfy myself of this hidden strength you speak of, then you may have him. If not, he will die, and there will be no more talk of this.”

Haggar’s face, which had twisted in mute displeasure at Zarkon’s first statement, twisted further into a sharp smile. She bowed her head in gratitude.

“Of course, my Emperor. It will be as you say.”

 

* * *

 

Most of the sentient species of the universe were smaller than the average Galra. The Champion - an ‘Earthling,’ or so Zarkon had heard - stood at a somewhat more respectable height than many of these, though he was still shorter than the Galra Sentries he stood between. His build was, in fact, reminiscent of the Altean race’s favored form; had Zarkon not known with certainty that no Alteans were left alive in the galaxy, had he not noticed the alien shape of the creature’s ears or the subtle differences in facial structure or the distinct lack of colored markings under his eyes, he might almost have thought the Champion to have been one last remnant of that ancient race come back to life.

As it was, Zarkon had to ponder the probability of another world in another galaxy simply happening to evolve creatures so like the Alteans, or whether some might have slipped his net during his destruction of their home world, settled far beyond the known universe of the time, regrouped and multiplied and _changed_ in the last ten thousand years, or else blended in and possibly even interbred with a passing similar species native to that new world…

An idle speculation, ultimately meaningless. The origins of the Earthling’s species made no difference. Zarkon had more immediate matters to turn his mind towards - namely, the strength Haggar claimed to have seen.

The Champion stood like a soldier.

Zarkon had dismissed it before, separated by a screen and the span of galaxies. Here and now, looking on the Earthling up close and with, admittedly, more attentive interest than before, it was readily apparent. The Champion was more than likely afraid - all who stood in his presence knew at least some fear, he saw to that - but it was hidden under a steady face and a solid stance and, somewhere behind his eyes, the small, hard light of a brilliant, distant star.

Zarkon did not for a moment forget the weakness of this Champion’s habitual mercy in the arena, but still he fancied he could see a glimmer of the same potential Haggar had sworn was present in this being, especially considering the skill he had previously witnessed. Soldiers could be trained to kill as well as protect. Stars could expand and burn, implode and devour all they had once sustained. And while the Earthling was small compared to the Galra - a mere insect compared to Zarkon’s own power - he might very well be the ore from which a weapon could be forged.

First, though, Zarkon had to make sure certain impurities did not run so deep as to render that ore unusable.

“So,” he said, unfolding from his throne when the Champion and his guards came to a halt halfway across the room, “you are the Champion I have heard of.”

“My name is Shiro-”

“Your name is immaterial,” Zarkon interrupted. The Champion’s voice was clear and strong; Zarkon could barely hear the strangled note of fear and uncertainty he had expected. “I am Emperor Zarkon, Lord of the known universe, and you are here at my leisure.”

“What do you want from me, then?”

Zarkon stepped onto the platform at the edge of his personal viewing box; with a barely-audible hum, it lowered him steadily toward the smooth, dark floor of his personal arena’s pit, where the alien gladiator and his guards were already waiting. The Champion watched him approach without betraying any visible signs of foreboding.

“I am told that you are now unmatched in the arena. You were originally brought in to fight and die, and took all by surprise by emerging victorious instead,” he said, stepping off the lift as it settled and pacing slowly toward the cluster of guards and prisoner. “I wanted to test your skill further.”

“You want me to fight for you,” the Champion surmised, tracking Zarkon with his gaze.

“In a manner of speaking,” Zarkon agreed, a swell of dark amusement filling him. If the Champion impressed him somehow, if Haggar had her way, then yes, this Earthling could indeed _fight_ _for_ Zarkon. “However, unlike many in my empire, I am not always content with mere exhibition matches. I prefer to gauge a warrior’s might more directly, should he prove worthy of my attention at all. I have called you here to offer a wager.”

The Champion’s stare had been anything but lazy before, yet still it sharpened at this.

“The wager is this: you will fight me in single combat, here and now. If you lose, you will likely die. If you win, however, anything you desire will be yours, even up to my very Empire.”

“That’s a steep wager,” the Champion noted. “You must be very sure of yourself…or there’s a catch. Assassins paid to take me out if it goes badly for you, maybe?”

“There is no ‘catch,’ as you say. I have made it very clear to all of my commanders that any single warrior who defeats me in such a situation as this is worthy of my seat and all the respect it commands. In the Galra Empire, strength is paramount.”

“What if all I want is freedom for myself and for the other prisoners?”

“Then my commanders will see that you have it before finding themselves a new leader, unless you appoint one yourself first,” Zarkon promised.

“It sounds too good to be true.”

“It may well be, as it depends entirely on whether you truly are as skilled a warrior as they say, or if you are better. And I warn you only this once: I will not be as easy to best as the criminals and slaves you have faced thus far. My defeat will not come with mere injury or surrender. I am a true Galra; I am only stopped by victory or death.”

One sharp gesture, and three of the four sentries surrounding the Champion turned and marched away through the barred gate behind them. The fourth turned, drew a laser-edged gladiatorial blade from its side, and offered its hilt to the Earthling. The Champion glanced at it, then back at Zarkon.

“I haven’t agreed to this wager yet,” he said.

Zarkon shrugged his cape off into the waiting hands of another sentry, which marched back to the lift and took it back up to the stands.

“Then your death will be swift and inevitable,” he replied, drawing his own gladiatorial blade - longer and broader than the other, to better suit Zarkon’s height and reach, but fundamentally the same. He would not need his bayard for this.

The Champion took up his sword.

 

* * *

 

The world narrowed and focused the way it only did during a one-on-one battle.

Sweeping arcs of violet light across his vision, the catch and crash and shriek of colliding, interlocking energy fields in his hands and ears, the blood quickening in his veins.

The Champion was not a challenge.

Watching the feet, the shoulders, the eyes for telegraphed movements. Seeing the lightning flash of his thoughts there, his plans, reacting to them an instant before their execution, because as quick as the Champion is he is also a stripling with mere decades of experience in his body, decades as opposed to millennia…

Not a challenge at all. Zarkon was hardly trying. Had he opted for his bayard and with it his full strength, the fight would have ended within a single strike - two if he’d allowed the Champion a free first blow. For all his talent, the Earthling was an infant by comparison.

Pretending weakness, a feigned flaw in his fighting style: subtle openings, flickers of overextension, as if pride made him lax and unprofessional. Nothing overt. He never called attention to it, was never dramatic in his false errors of form, but he maintained the ruse all the same, testing and teasing. _Cunning_ , Haggar had called the Champion. _Deliberate._ Cunning enough to notice the hidden bait?

Yes, yet not cunning enough to suspect the hook.

The Champion aimed for the illusion of a weak point only to see it vanish like a mirage before his eyes. Zarkon saw the shock cross his face an instant before the point of his sword followed; the Champion danced backward out of reach a moment too late, red blood spraying into the air, spitting words Zarkon suspected to be curses native to his world, a hand rising toward his nose.

The Emperor gave his quarry no time to recover. A true soldier would not need it, and though the Champion fumbled the first block he proved himself again by the second.

Not a challenge, yet an enjoyable diversion, at least.

Violet light sweeping and curving, shrieking and crashing, spitting sparks that caught in dark eyes above a mask of blood. The Champion had aimed for an illusion, but he had aimed true and without reservation; Zarkon was more than halfway convinced now.

Then a sword passed too near the Earthling’s face, and he faltered. Flinched. Zarkon frowned, his blood slowed. Struck lower and was countered, allowed a return attack which he easily blocked, then struck high again and watched the Champion bat the blow away, defensive and all but defeated by his own panic and fear despite the sparks in his eyes and the grit of his blunt, bloody teeth.

Chest, chest, leg, shoulder, head again and the Champion stumbled, spooked by the hum of violet that passed his cheek without touching it. And Zarkon, to his own surprise, felt almost disappointed. He had just begun to believe that Haggar had been on to something, had started to fully trust her judgment in this matter, had been enjoying himself in this mockery of a fight as much as a lion could enjoy playing with a mouse, only to find that the mouse broke far too easily.

It was a shame, but Haggar would simply have to find another pet project to focus on. Zarkon set his stance and swung for the Earthling’s head, anticipated the startled, fumbling dodge backwards and followed…

But the Champion wasn’t going backwards anymore. He was lunging, meeting Zarkon head on, the stars in his eyes burning and his sword hurtling toward Zarkon’s open chest with all the speed of the Champion’s arm combined with that of Zarkon’s own advance straight into its path. He twisted, his first inelegant movement in the entire fight, and the edge of the blade skidded down across his chest plate, scratching the surface, catching the lighter woven armor at his side and searing a line of stinging heat there for just an instant before all his amassed Quintessence healed the wound - hardly a scratch, there and gone, but a wound all the same, and more than that, an _embarrassment,_ because Zarkon himself had used this very trick against the Earthling moments before; to have it turned back on him now, and so successfully...

The world was no longer focused and sharpened as in a one-on-one fight. It vanished entirely, leaving only the sword in Zarkon’s hand and the arm outstretched before him and somewhere beneath it all a blazing black hum.

He didn’t think. He simply moved.

The rags of a gladiatorial fighter were no match for a laser-edged Galra blade. Flesh and bone fared little better. The world returned with the Champion’s scream and the clatter of a sword against the ground, still gripped in the Earthling’s right hand.

The Champion fell, pale and bleeding, his voice keening into the silence of shock. Zarkon paid him no mind, but brushed his fingers across the rip in his light under-armor, the curved scratch in his breastplate. Had he been slower to realize and react, had the blade pierced the first point of contact…the Quintessence would still have kept him alive, healed him, but any lesser Galra would most likely have died.

Given a goal he desired above all else and an enemy to overcome in pursuit of it, the Champion had shed his weakness and struck to kill.

Zarkon heard the whisper of robes behind him.

“His body is broken,” he warned.

“It can be rebuilt,” Haggar said, sounding pleased with the opportunity, “stronger and better than before.”

“You still want him, then?”

“If it pleases you, sire, yes.”

Zarkon deactivated the edge of the blade in his hand, tucked it away, and finally deigned to look at his defeated slave. The Earthling was still breathing, though raggedly. His eyes were half-closed, dull and without the spark of battle. Now that his blood had fully settled, Zarkon could see beyond the rage of being tricked in the heat of a fight, and towards the future value of the one who had managed it, should it be turned toward his use.

 “He is yours. Do as you will.”

Druids melted into the air, lifted the Champion’s half-conscious body from the floor, and vanished again, leaving only the Earthling’s drying blood and lost arm for the cleaning drones to dispose of.

A star could expand and burn or implode and devour. Zarkon wondered which form Haggar’s planned weapon would take.


End file.
